"I though you weren't a gentleman. Isn't that what you said before?"
"It has nothing to do with etiquette. It's an act of pure preservation. Nothing more."
Ianthe's smile softened, the shadows of the room limning her features and highlighting those dangerous eyes. They were like darkened clouds—endlessly changing, as restless and dramatic as an approaching storm. She was beautiful. He could never forget that. Nor could he stop his gaze from seeking her out as she turned to the books on the desk.
Perhaps it's because you haven't been with a woman for so long?
Perhaps... Or perhaps not. The thought discomforted him a little. She reminded him of himself. Both of them had been effectively orphaned by cold, distant parents, but whereas she seemed to have found herself and thrived, he was still trying to find his feet. That showed a strength of will he both admired and respected.
And envied, if he were being honest with himself.
"Here, I think I found something," Ianthe said, flicking through the pages of a book. Every inch of her face lit up in animation, and he felt something clench inside his chest. "It's not a diary. Oh." Her expression fell as she flicked through the pages. "Rather monotonous, truly. A study on theosophy, though Lord Rathbourne seemed hardly the enlightened sort." Her nose wrinkled up as her eyes traversed the page. "Good gods, what a bore."
"One could say that you have his measure already."
She moved on, examining the bookshelves and the smattering of leather-bound books on the desk. "A translation of the Epic of Gilgamesh," she murmured, casting aside books. "The Parabola Allegory, The Sixth and Seventh Book of Moses. Interesting collection. Lord Rathbourne seems to have been a dabbler, rather than one allied to a particular field of study..." He sensed the moment that she realized his quietness. Those dark lashes swept up, a faint frown furrowing her brow. "What is it? What's wrong?"
Nothing. Lucien panicked.
"You can tell me, you know. After all, you know some of my worst secrets. In a way..." Ianthe took a deep breath. "I know we're not friends, but I feel this odd sort of kinship with you. Neither of us were wanted, not truly. And I would never share what you told me with others."
Not alone. Not if he gave in to this. But the hesitation remained. How long had it been since he'd placed his trust in another?
The answer to that lay all around him. A year. A year since he'd been shown the value of another's trust. Bitterness and cynicism had swallowed him up in that time. He had the sudden shocking realization that he didn't know himself anymore. He had become someone who watched the world through wary eyes.
"It's difficult, isn't it? To place one's trust in another's hands. Or your body perhaps, hoping that you won't be hurt," she said.
That jerked his head up. She'd feared his intentions when she'd given herself to him? "You weren't afraid of me."
"Of course I was frightened, Lucien. I barely knew you, and you yourself admitted you wanted revenge. Or want revenge," she corrected. "But you didn't hurt me. My trust was not misplaced, and now you know some of my secrets..."
The offer lay between them, tremulous as a truce between warring armies. He had the feeling that it wouldn't come again if he refused her this one time.
Take it, or don't...
"It gets to me." Something unfurled within him, something he'd been holding onto for a long time. "Being here, under the shadow of him."
Ianthe glanced around, but he knew she saw only the bookcases and the heavy desk. This room wasn't weighted in memory for her, the way it was for him.
The desk where Lord Rathbourne had spent most of his life behind, scratching out his notes in the bloody grimoire that Ianthe held in her hands right now. Ignoring him as a child, but lavishing attention on his chubby, spoiled cousin, Robert. Robert who always pleased Lord Rathbourne. Robert, who, for some inexplicable reason, was better than Lucien. More. No matter how hard he tried.
Everything held a ghost of memory: the heavy skull that sat atop the desk; the hourglass; the scarred bench surface where Lord Rathbourne had worked his alchemies; the drawer where the Earl kept the strap he'd used to punish Lucien whenever he'd caused some minor indiscretion; the silver circle set into the floor, where Luc had stood when he called for the demon...
His chest tightened, nostrils flaring, and he clenched his eyes shut, turning his face away. "I was here... When I called the demon forth." An eerie prickling stirred over the back of his neck. This was where his life had changed, and not for the better. The last time he'd been here, pieces of Lord Rathbourne had been splashed all over the walls. Lucien had broken free of his collar, as the ring controlling it had been destroyed in the blast, and found himself covered in blood, and filthy with the oily stain of the demon upon his soul, knowing that he could not stay. Anywhere. Anywhere, but here...
That was when she'd found him, three days later, at the Grosvenor Hotel.
"It's just a room, Lucien," Ianthe said softly. "Just memories." He looked up and those gorgeous eyes shuttered. "We all have them. No doubt yours are as pleasant as mine."
Closing the book she'd been perusing, she set it aside, moving toward him with a faint swish of her skirts. It was as if she could see right through him. "You're not alone, Rathbourne. Not this time."
It helped ease the jagged edges within him. Lucien bowed his head, hungry for her to touch him, but unable to ask for it. "It feels like I've always been alone. I've never belonged to anybody." And I want to, damn it.
"Forget those memories," she whispered, her hand sliding over his cheek, "and look again. It's just a room."
Lucien let out the breath he'd been holding. She was right. He cupped his hand over hers, holding it to his cheek. Not enough. He wanted the crush of her body against his. Curling his arms around her, he dragged her close, burying his face into the side of her neck.
Ianthe wrapped hesitant arms around him. There was tension within her, something that eased as soon as his arms came around her, as if she too needed this. Lucien's buttocks hit the scarred desk. He was trapped in a cage of skirts and the scent of lilacs. A pleasant prison, indeed.
